The Joy of Goodbye

2017 will bring me the gift of turning 50. Some folks are not excited about the half-century mark, but I have never been in the "normal" range of anything. I learned early, every day is a gift and celebrating 50 years of life is not a milestone everyone reaches. So, if I reach that sweet moment in October, the world will hear me celebrating.
My forties were a time of constant upheaval. Multiple moves in short spans of time and three professional changes for my husband. We moved 1,526 miles away from family and welcomed the birth of our second child. I felt like I was constantly Mommy-dating, which is way worse than regular dating. I missed my tight-knit group in Rocky Mount that scattered across the country, literally. I never felt that connection again. My Dad had mulitple health scares that seemed insurmountable when I could not touch his hand to comfort my growing fear of losing the man that shaped me. In the same vein, I had disagreements with this stubborn Father who raised a stubborn daughter. But we had a woman who navigated those rough spots in the ocean and guided us to a forgiving harbor as only a Mom can. I ache sometimes for the space we put between us but then again, I am more appreciative of the proximital and emotional closeness between us now. I carved my initials in a tree that grew in the lawn of my one and only childhood home that now provides shade for another family. I squoze the hand of my brother-in-law and whispered "Where it's a first down....Pirates!" for the last time. Football games and Christmas are permanently altered with a bittersweet taste that we try to sweeten every season. We sent our Mason and Dixon to the Rainbow Bridge, our children before children who provided memories that still make our hearts smile with their wonderful antics. I watched our children maneuver leaving fantastic friends in Texas to navigating new ones in Cary. The first year was a rough transition, but thankfully, both have found their way with friends, school and activities. I argued with God and the church made by humans. I have found peace with both. I watched dear friends say goodbye to those that should not have yet wrote a farewell letter I wished had never been mailed. And I realized that our life, anyone's life, would always be in transition whether we were prepared or not.
But with upheavel comes revelation of a new life. In Austin, I met an amazing group of women at my MOMs group. Strong, hilarious, funny, real and relevant. I keep in touch with all of those ladies today and I am amazed at the wonderful things they are accomplishing individually and as families. As when I lived there, they are a constant inspiration in my daily life. I ran my first half-marathon. I completed my first triathalon. I ran faithfully most mornings with a beautiful group of women who kept it real in life and on the trail. "Good Morning, Sunshine!" is never taken for granted. I dipped my little toe back in the working world pool and played with three-year-olds for two years. Those little hands and hearts will never know the impact they had on Mrs. Tingelstad. My little Cubs healed a heart they did not know was broken. I listened to a very good friend and decided to become a full-time substitute teacher. My work life heart is beating at a pace I did not know existed or could beat this happy. At times I wonder if there is a new path I need to follow. I watched my parents blossom in a new environment and watched a healing beyond my imagination unfold. God has His time and His reasons and I learned, humbly, I am still very much a student. With the guidance of those around me, I took a risk and decided to take my writing public with a little known blog, The Joy Diaries. This little blip on the internet gave me a place to let my heart heal, let me transition as a writer, as a Mom, as a woman and gave me the strength to realize that maybe, just maybe, sometimes my words make people pause, think, and ponder. When I started The Joy Diaries, my intent was mostly selfish. My children were growing, our life was changing direction and I was feeling a little untethered, a little adrift, a little lost at a time when I should truly be an anchor for my family. The Joy Diaries became my life boat.
But there always comes a time when the boat runs aground, or the gas tank is empty, or there is no wind in the sail, or perhaps, the old gal just needs to be dry docked. So, with a mixed heart, I am here to say this is the last entry for The Joy Diaries. I feel like she has run her course. This blog was a little bit like my first sail up the coast while I began to prepare for the journey around the world. And now I need to prepare for my new adventure. So within the next two months, or so, I will be unveiling two new blogs! One will be pertaining to my adventures as a Susbsitute Teacher titled, "Notes from the Sub" and one as a creative, and hopefully, career outlet, titled, "The Monologue" dealing with a variety of topics that tickle my brain, and hopefully, yours. I am hoping at some point, the Monologue will become more of a business side of my life where I can procure my writing skills, offer my speaking talents to various organizations and if I get a little crazy, show up on YouTube or Instagram or Twitter or if I get really adventureous, a local TV show.
On New Year's Eve, I wrote on a white board in our house, "What will you do to make 2017 an amazing year?" My son wrote, "Make Sadie Fly!". Sadie is our three-year-old rescue dog who is kind of a daily miracle. Well, if we can make Sadie fly, why can't Mommy fly, too? I look forward to seeing you all in the blue skies of 2017 where anything, and I mean anything, can happen. 
To those of you that followed me, thank you so much for taking the time to read the words I typed. I hope you will continue to follow me to our next desination where we will continue to find joy in a different space. Because if you think about it, a Joy Diary is just your story waiting to be written. And I for one, cannot wait to joyfully read your happy ending.

The Joy of Poetry

I have to admit, there has been a long lapse in my life since I have written poetry. But tonight, I felt a need to revisit a place that has always brought me great joy.  I hope you enjoy my interlude of the rhyming word and perhaps you, too, will revisit a beautiful part of our literary world.

Please, put down the hate

And pick up the love.

If you are faltering,

Seek the one above.

We all struggle.

We all feel pain.

No matter our color

We feel hurt the same.

The words spewed

Without thought

Leave us angered

We are all distraught.

If I were you

And you were me

Losing a loved one

We don’t feel differently.

 I hear the pain

That breaks in your voice

And I hope together

We can break through the noise.

That children are children

And all our hearts shatter

When a life is lost

Because every life matters.

Please put down the hate

And pick up the love

If you are faltering

Seek the one above.

Discuss what hurts

Talk about anger

Talk about subjects

And thoughts that matter.

We all have a voice

We all have a place

Let’s discuss our differences

Face to face.

We can do this

We can move forward

Our country has always

Moved upward and onward.

Civility and dignity

Must find its place

So we can continue

To be THE UNITED STATES!

So one last time

With a heart open wide,

Together we can close

This expanding divide.

Please put down the hate

And pick up the love,

If you are faltering

Seek the one above.

Because in the end

I love you and you love me,

And that is the way

We were intended to be.

The Joy of Hope

"I may feel helpless, but never hopeless." I wrote these words tonight on my personal Facebook page after learning of the horror in Nice, France. I hung my head and honestly, I could not even pray...again. I feel like I am stuck in a horror adaptation of Groundhog Day. I wonder if humanity and her empathy have gone on a sabbatical without notice. But, I am reminded constantly that our world has always been at war. This sadness I feel is nothing new to those who lived before us. That this bloody battle that is shown on every news channel 24/7 is old news, but so consequently, is the quiet, relentless, unyielding face of hope.
 I have always felt things deeply and this is not really a "gift" as one might imagine. For with every unbridled joy there is also the despondent despair. For those of us who walk the emotional tightrope of the human race, rarely do we find an equilibrium. My earliest memory of this feeling was when my best friend in Middle School parents' were getting a divorce. I carried her sadness around my shoulders like an afghan in winter. I thought I could comfort her if I took on her feelings - maybe she would not feel the tear of her family fabric ripping as much if I provided a temporary patch. After several weeks of a minor melancholy state,  I remember my Mom asking me what was wrong and when I responded, she quietly said, "Laura, you cannot carry the weight of the world on your shoulders." Little did I know this statement would be my emotional make up kit. And I would pack it wherever I traveled.
Mom was right, but as most children, I did not listen. I knew, yes, I knew, I could fix things. If I could vacuum up just a smidgen of their hurt and cast it out with my often heard belly laughing, the pain of those around me would dissipate. But eventually, you realize you are harboring way more than you are casting off and slowly, you might find yourself sinking like the weight attached to a fishing line.
I guess I was fortunate enough to always have a red and white bobble attached to my emotional line. I am surrounded by amazing friends and family.

I have watched these hardworking people succeed in careers, family, and charitable giving, often taking incredulous risks to lasso a dream, and I was more than happy to have a seat in the front row. I cried tears of joy for every hard fought victory. I was close enough to make a catch if they stumbled, but not quite close enough to interfere with their forward momentum. We discussed why they were beyond awesome and yes, sometimes my hands stung with their over zealous high fives. But I was lifted with their glory, their happiness, and their success. My children laugh at me whenever I watch a major sporting event because I cry. And I mean that down and dirty ugly cry. Because I feel the sacrifice those athletes made to get to that moment. No, I have no Olympic Medal, no Heisman Trophy, no Wimbledon Cup but I "get them" when the athletic journey is over and the realization of every sore muscle, every loss before that one, every coach's word ringing in their ears, every decision to miss a normal life moment is coming to fruition. Truth be told, my daughter placed third in a top tier swimming heat this week, and I seriously, quietly cried. I know people may label me "emotional", but I also know everything that went into Anna scoring those first ever points for her swim team. And I let it all out for her. That is what I do.
But there is a negative to every positive. So these world events lately, are creating a havoc on my emotional system. When I see people of any color lose their life at the hands of  bad people who should protect us, I hurt. When I see bad people take the lives of those who protect us 24/7 without question, I hurt. When I hear racial slurs of any kind, I hurt. When I hear of a young man walk into a church and open fire, I hurt. When I watch angry protesters become violent and burn down a city, I hurt. When I learn of a man walking into a gay nightclub and opening fire, I hurt. When I hear a terrorist claim love for their God and then kill, I hurt. When I hear of a man driving a truck over people and then begin shooting on Bastille Day, killing and injuring an unimaginable number, I hurt. Last week, my husband asked me several times, "Is something bothering you? Are you OK?" and I knew that once again, I was wrapping that emotional afghan around my shoulders, feeling the world's weight, bear down with a force that was almost crippling.
Sunday, we went to church. My daughter and I volunteer in the Toddler A Room every other Sunday. No matter our moods upon arrival, we leave the room laughing, retelling stories of the antics of our very lovable and adorable 18-24 month old charges. We wait in the Lobby for David and Josh to arrive, often talking about various topics. It's probably one of my very favorite parts of my week, because for fifteen minutes, it's just me and my daughter, talking. About nothing. About everything. And I see a flickering light that will continue to burn as her generation begins to transform our world.

In those fleeting fifteen minutes, I feel the hope creeping in around me, quietly removing the emotional afghan, carefully folding and placing it in my mind drawer. I feel a little lighter, and well, a little more hopeful. After we deposited our children in their respective areas, David and I made our way to our seats for our service. I shared with my husband I was warned this was a tissue worthy service. Because of the recent tragedy in Dallas, I thought we would be talking about race relations, violence and how so many feel helpless in the chaos that is becoming a constant in our life. And then Bruce Ham was introduced to our congregation. He is the Chief Development Officer at the Triangle YMCA and our church is partnering with the YMCA to build a wonderful facility in our area. "Oh", I remember thinking, "he is going to tell us how we our going to impact our community.". Then Bruce shared his personal story and the tears flowed for the next ten to fifteen minutes. I urge you to click on the link I have posted at the bottom of this entry - Bruce is poignant, humorous, and honest as he unabashedly reveals the darkness that cloaked his family when he lost his wife and his three young daughters, their mother, to cancer at the young age of 39. At one point, he shared, his youngest asked, "Daddy, can we give Mommy's cancer to someone else?". You see, she, too, was looking for hope in the middle of a storm no child should face, but unfortunately, do. Bruce went on to give us ten tips on how to help people through the grieving process. Ten little steps that lead you toward the path of hope. I wonder if someone had reached out to the man who drove his truck through the innocent gatherers celebrating Bastille Day, would have really delivered ice cream instead of carnage, if he had stepped toward hope and away from hate. That man, that father, that husband, that son, felt hopeless and the rest of us became helpless.
I know tomorrow I will be able to pray again to ask for the healing of the families as they prepare for an empty space at their dinner tables. I know tomorrow I will pray for our world leaders to be wise and direct with those that are violently objectionable to the human race. I know tomorrow I will pray for our communities to talk civilly about hard subjects that begin to heal old, old wounds. I know tomorrow I will pray for a little girl in our community who is battling brain cancer. I know tomorrow I will try to make a difference as maybe I walk someone down the path of hope. Because hope, in the epic game of rock, paper, scissors, will always trump hate. And I find great joy in knowing that while I may feel temporarily helpless, I will never feel forever hopeless. And the people said, "Amen.".
http://crosspointe.org/series/practical-ways-to-love-your-grieving-friends

The Joy of Dad

"When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant, I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years." Mark Twain

My brother presented this famous quote on a mug to my father right around the time I was 14. My eldest brother is six years older than me, so you can understand why I thought he was a complete idiot in giving this to our Dad. Lou was starting his own life outside of our house and perhaps had begun to understand the difficulties and the complexities of the man who shared our DNA. And perhaps, had begun to see Dad emerging in him.

I have two very early memories of my Father and they are imbedded deep in my mind and heart. His laugh - deep, infectious, genuine and immediately recognizable. My Mom shared with me that my Grandmother loved to hear my Dad laugh .It was one of the first things she loved about about the man who eventually became a devoted son-in-law. We share that sentiment, my Grandmom and I. The second is his whistle. When I pucker my lips together in a tight O and force air to flow out of the oral opening, dogs cower with hind haunches rolled under and tails tucked  protectively between their legs. Clearly, this musical gene did not transfer to his daughter, for my Dad is the Pavorati of whistlers. His range is unmatched and his melodic rhythm of is simply hypnotic. I could listen for hours and was often disappointed when his concert ended. I am his biggest groupie. In fact, Christmas one year, Mom gave me a tape of Dad whistling - it is one of my most beloved treasures and one I need to transfer to the digital age. Like a soft summer rain, listening to Dad's whistle, brings me peace and comfort and joy. I also learned early on, if you heard Dad whistling, that was the time to hit him up for a big request. But, I digress.

My Dad was always around. So much so, that at times, I found him a nuisance. I mean this man was always asking me and my brothers questions at the dinner table about our days. And then he would actually listen to our answers. And yes, he would argue and tell us we were wrong, but, darn it, he was still there. He would urge us to try harder in our sporting events that he never missed. He always had advice on how we could improve our game. Even when we didn't ask. But he was there, in the stands, cheering at every game. He went to Parent/Teacher Conferences with Mom and asked why I wasn't completing homework assignments when I said I positively, absolutely had completed all my school work. I often wondered why did he care? Didn't he have issues of his own to address? And don't even get me started on the dress code, and being a lady, and manners, and work ethic and love of country and loyalty and self respect. Sigh. He was everywhere. 

Today there are approximately 322 miles between Dad and me. I am luckier than most my age to still have a Dad answer my phone calls. While he may not be at the top of his game, he still gets on the phone to talk to his "girl" and I have to admit, I miss his inquiries. As most parent/child relationships, we were not always on the same page and sometimes our words were not always comforting, agreeable or loving. But, they were always honest. Truth hurts sometimes, on both sides. But the wounds heal and the bond is stronger and in our case, closer.

You see, my Dad has suffered two strokes and while his physical self is not too different, his brain is altered. Sometimes he might not follow our conversations completely but other times, he is connecting the dots quickly and accurately. He doesn't like the phone much and conversations are short. He tires easily when we visit but he is present. But here is the best part. He is softer. His language is gentle and his heart is wide open. Dad never misses a moment to tell us he loves us. He never misses a moment to tell us he misses us. He never misses a moment to tell us he wishes he could see us more, but understands we are busy. Some people say he has regressed but I disagree. To me, Dad is in the best place - kind of like a small child. He is present for each moment, soaking in the life around him, sharing his love with his family and laughing that beautiful laugh that rings in my ears and settles in my heart. And I find myself saying "I love you" a lot more, too. And not just to him.

I am a blessed daughter and also a blessed wife who married a man who loves his children, unconditinally.  Anna is lucky. But she is almost 13 and is struggling to understand the complexities of her highly annoying, yet loving Dad. I have thought about the Mark Twain mug  often and wonder if I should give to Anna for Father's Day.  She doesn't know this yet, but there is no greater joy than the special love shared between a daughter and her Dad. I just wish it didn't take so long to realize they loved us all along. 

Happy Father's Day to all my amazing Dad relatives and friends - you have set the bar high - don't ever bring it down. May you always be annoyingly loving to your daughters.

The Joy of Transition

Random House Webster's College Dictionary defines transition as "movement, passage, or change from one position, state, stage, subject, concept, etc., to another.". If you think about it, we are in a constant state of transition - sometimes big, sometimes medium, sometimes small. But we are always changing. For me, my medium change at the moment is shifting from a part-time preschool teacher to full-time substitute teacher for our local school system. I am excited about my new opportunity but as with any change, there is a bit of apprehension. What if I don't have enough hours? What if I don't understand a teaching concept? What if I don't have lesson plans? What if....and then you have to breathe and start over. What if I really like it? What if I have an opportunity to become a long term substitute? What if I absolutely, positively love my new job? Breathe.
Yesterday, at our staff End of Year Brunch, our fearless leader announced she was retiring after leading our preschool for 12 years. There was an audible gasp followed by lots of tears. She has been the steady, loving, patient, wise and faithful friend (notice the word boss is not used) that has guided countless families, teachers and staff through our children's center. Her absence will be felt greatly when the doors are re-opened in the Fall. What transpired after we all wrapped our heads around the announcement was a discussion about change and how most people do not like change. And our wise friend gently reminded us, "People don't like bad change. It's not the change - it's the type of change. People get excited about good change.". Like so many things she has said to me during the past two years, her statement has been on permanent replay in my mind.  And once again, my friend is correct. Breathe.

Let's think about this for a moment. Good change brings a certain level of excitement with a twinge of apprehension. Buying your first car. Landing your first job or receiving a promotion. Graduation. Signing a contract for a professional sport or a lucrative deal in the creative sector. Marriage. Any type of new relationship. Moving into a new residence. Starting an exercise program. Joining an extra curricular activity or a Mom's Group. Winning the Power Ball (although this inevitably leads to bad change). So, let's freely admit we welcome this type of change with open arms and say "Change is good!". Breathe.
And then there is the other side of the coin...the bad changes in life. Divorce. Death. Bankruptcy. Diagnosis. Loss of employment. Unexpected job change. Buyout. Management shake up. Terrorism on your homeland. Natural disasters. Moving to a new state/country without really wanting to leave. Elections. The Unknown. Breathe. Deep.
That word is the true fear, right? Not the actual change but the unknown life altering consequences because of the change. We are witnessing and experiencing unprecedented change in our country right now in epic proportions and people are flat out scared. Who is going to be our next President? Who will be on the Supreme Court? What if the minimum wage is raised to $15 an hour? What the heck is transgender and what is this bathroom law? Why is Target saying people can go into any bathroom regardless of gender? Why are we letting refugees into our country? What if my child doesn't get the teacher I want? What if I don't like my new boss? What if I don't understand the language of my new country? Are all Muslims dangerous? Do we need to scope out their neighborhoods? Zika Virus? Does Congress have any clue what their voters want? What if accepting this job is the worst mistake I ever made? What if I am not in control? BOOM! Oops. Forgot to breathe.

We have become a world of micro-managers who can no longer have a civil conversation. We have lost all aspects of gray and drawn extreme black/white lines with no room for crossover. Because we have become so scared of change, we want everyone to be the same and if they are not, the words "stupid", "ignorant", "backwards", "evil", "moronic" and other hate speech have been spewed like the vicious venom of a Cobra, leaving us paralyzed and inept. We cannot breathe.
We are better, America. The Founders of our country came here to set forth change and bring about a democratic state that welcomed a difference of opinion and encouraged free (albeit thoughtful) speech. Freedom brings choice, responsibility, acceptance, compassion and change. Let's attempt to transition from talkers to listeners. Let's attempt to transition from contempt to compromise. Let's attempt to agree to disagree, yet still respect the person. Take a breath. Pause and change your perspective for just a moment. Like the caterpillar to the butterfly. Once upon a time, I crawled upon the ground and then one day, I sprouted wings. We may not all have the same color wings, but we can soar in the same sky. And, maybe, just maybe, we can transition into a joyful, healthy space - wouldn't that be a breath of fresh air?

The Joy of Running (for me)

Running has always been a release for me, even if I did not know it at the time. Early on, I ran hard and fast to keep up with my older brothers. A feat that was not always easy and definitely not always a celebratory finish. But the continual shrugging off of their little sister did not slow me down, only increased my strength and determination.
Later, I ran in Field Day races, up and down a soccer field, a basketball court, a field hockey field, and around the black tar track that circled a down trodden football field. Eventually, I would find my way down paved and dirt roads, hilly trails, through beautiful campuses and bustling cities, along East Coast beaches, and sometimes, on a detour from reality.

Running, like many interests, is not for everyone and rarely will I try to entice someone to join me on the trail. But if you decide to pull those dusty exercise shoes out of your closet, I will be one of your biggest cheerleaders. I am not interested in your pace, your distance or your stamina. I am just happy you are making a positive health change in your life. There are numerous articles exclaiming the many health benefits of running: improves cardiovascular fitness, strengthens your bones and muscles, helps your mental state by fighting depression and anxiety, and will help you maintain a healthy weight. There are more extensive articles that delve into the chemical make up of our bodies and the positive effects of running but science and math were never my strong suits, so I will leave those interpretations up to your individual research. But here is one thing I do know through my own experience: running makes me happy. When I complete a long run, not only do I leave my sweat and footprints on the trail, but I leave  behind my frustrations, my worries, my anger and my problems. Once upon a time, I was a girl who focused on setting Personal Records (PR's), attempting to get my name in a record book or finish in the top three of my age group. But now, I look at a woman who has dug deep into inner strength to consistently put one foot in front of the other, not only in running, but in life. Yes, I still wear a Garmin. But I don't set my pace timer, I set my peace timer. I click on my GPS and know that the next 30 - 90 minutes are mine, all mine. I rarely take my iPod these days. Instead, I tend to talk to God, look at the nature surrounding me, listen to the gurgling brook, the chirping birds, the squawking squirrels, the laughter of neighborhood children, the happy panting of dogs unleashed and the soft pounding of my feet moving me forward. And I never turn my head to see if anyone is gaining ground.
This year I decided to sign up as a Mentor for our local Fleet Feet Half-Marathon Running Program (shameless plug for Fleet Feet - amazing store, amazing people, amazing products). I had never mentored through a program before so I was a little nervous and anxious about my decision. What did I know about running other than I loved it? I wasn't going to be able to tell someone how to correctly hydrate, how to replace electrolytes through food, how to figure out your correct race pace, or how to eat those liquid goo things that cause their own level of personal frustration for me during a race? Egads! What have I done? What if I become the Charlie Brown of running mentors? What if Lucy keeps moving the finish line? My inner voice is screaming, "You BLOCKHEAD!".
But here is the other thing running has taught me - don't ever settle. Don't become comfortable. And these two gems found on an inspirational quote site: "Running teaches me that I am capable of so much more than I ever imagined." and "We started out as runners. We ended up as friends.". Running groups are aWEsome. Now, don't get me wrong, I absolutely love my solo runs, better known as Mommy's Little Helper. But the group runs are mentally fantastic. The conversations and comraderie that flourish out of these brief evening runs or long Saturday morning excursions are truly a gift in life. When we lived in Austin, I ran with an amazing group of women who had a goal of completing a half marathon. We met three times a week in the wee hours of the morning, long before coffee began brewing or the sun raised her rays to welcome the day. I am not a morning person but I loved these morning jaunts. We laughed. We commiserated. We encouraged. We swore. We competed. We were thoughtful, honest, brutal, loving, sweaty, doubtful, and running our way into friendships that go way past the finish line. And are more meaningful than any medal that sits in a drawer covered by socks and underthings.
This mentoring thing has provided me with another great memory created by my joy of running. This Sunday, my mentee will run her first half marathon EVER and the longest mileage she has ever logged in her lifetime. That kind of kicks ass. We come from completely different worlds even though we live just a few miles from each other. Without the running program, I don't think our paths would have ever crossed, but I am so grateful for our intersection. She is insightful. Hilarious. Blatantly honest. Kind hearted. Real. Thankful. Brilliant. Worldly. Determined. And she has taught me to be a better Mom. She doesn't know this aspect and probably would not believe me if I told her, but our conversations made me look at things differently and at times, forced me to look through a child's eyes and not my own. I may have cheered her on to crossing a line she thought was impossible. But she guided me toward a different life terrain that will challenge me, but make me stronger and happier. All that from a pair of shoes and a trail on which I joyfully run. 

.
 PS: My Mentee never called me Blockhead, out loud.

 

The Joy of Love

Friday, November 13, 2015 terrorists viciously attacked innocent civilians in Paris. As I write these words, 129 people have died and 352 were injured under a cowardly act tightly wrapped in hate. By definition hate means: "to dislike intensely or passionately; feel extreme aversion for or extreme hostility toward; detest" (Webster's Dictionary). Hate is the vilest of the human emotions and most of the time, I believe hate is born out of heresy and misunderstandings. Differences can sometimes stoke fear in people - a fear that ultimately leads to decisions with horrendous consequences.
The Islamic State has declared war on the West. But their type of fighting and heinous humanitarian crimes committed throughout the world in the name of religion is foreign to many of us. These people are international bullies attacking people who are unarmed, unprepared and usually in the midst of enjoying life. Westerners are confused, mystified, horrified, disgusted and angry. As leaders of the free world head to the G-20 Summit this week, formulating a strategy to defeat ISIS will be at the top of their list. I am not a military strategist, but I do know this: ISIS does not appear to understand love and eventually, that will be their undoing.

ISIS keeps coming with one brutal attack after another and yet they never seem to grasp that we do not cower in fear or surrender to their violent demands. Instead, we unify. Lighting candles, linking arms, raising voices in song, raising flags in defiance and strengthening our stance against you -  in love. Yes, we will come after you. In the end, because of the atrocities you are committing against humanity, the people of the world who do not condone violence, will defend their right to life in a way you are not prepared to defend. Military strikes are a small part of the strategy and sometimes governments announce these strikes giving you time to defend yourself. Or sometimes, in your mind, giving you permission to hurt civilians instead of armed militia. But know this ISIS. People are praying for you. People are forgiving you. People are hoping you will see the error in your ways. People are listening to a voice that says above all else, love one another. Is this why you are angry with us? Many Westerners do not follow the path of wealth, greed and power. No, many of us follow the path of joy, hard work, family, love, tolerant religion and forgiveness. Did you hear those bells ringing through the streets of Paris on Saturday? Did you see people on their knees with tears streaming down their cheeks? Did you see the tiny tea lights illuminating Paris - the city you desperately are trying to darken? Here is the thing. Your acts of hatred strengthened our love and illuminated our light toward a higher ground. People around the world, in churches, communities, driving cars or walking on their own, were sending out prayers for healing. And here is the other thing - they were not all Westerners and they were not all Christians. They were humans that understand love is always the answer and hate will eventually dissolve like sugar in hot water.

Eventually, the ripples of hope will reach your hate camp. And these love circles will surround you like the people you tried to encase in the concert hall. But the ones we touch won't run screaming and won't be dragged down an alley drenched in blood. They will just leave you. That is eventually happens with hate. You entice lost people with dreams of power, money and greed - the very concepts you kill innocents for every day. But humans grow weary of hate. The emotion is tiring, degrading, and unfulfilling. Eventually, your recruits will look for something more - something that does not involve death and destruction. Eventually, they will follow the path of forgiveness and redemption, the path of light, the path of love, the path of life. So, one day, perhaps our paths will cross and you will take my life. But know this, you never took my light. And someone else will pick up my torch to carry on the fire of love that darkness can never extinguish. Joy, my friend, joy will always have a place in this world. And Paris, will always be the city of light and the city of love. Vive le France!!!!